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Last week I descended to a new all-time level of dumb. I pulled into a gas station, filled up the tank, got my kids some Slurpees, and headed home. A block and a half away from the station, I looked out my side-view mirror and saw that I had a new piece of equipment on my car: Yep, I drove off with the pump and hose still hanging out of my tank.

I promptly freaked out, imagining a geyser of gas emanating from that station I had defaced, and pulled over. I threw the pump in the back and returned it with very little fanfare. Thankfully there was no gas geyser. The nice clerk smiled like one does at a special needs child and told me that I couldn’t fix it. “No,” he said, “it doesn’t just snap back on.” Oh.

One great thing about being a writer and speaker is that I can always make good use of my gaffs and griefs. I originally thought that this was a new low for me, but that’s not exactly true. I have battled attachment disorder before. You know, when you think you can just drive away from a bad relationship, and it doesn’t quite work out that way. You pay your dues and you think you’re done, only to discover that the other person isn’t done and makes quite a stink about it.

At least this time I didn’t spend all my time trying to fix what was broken by myself. I left it to the expert. All I had left to remind me of the relationship was a little gas (I mean the odor) and six kids who insisting on telling their father what I had done.

Photo by Debs (ò‿ó)♪ – http://flic.kr/p/7oPDyC

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